Rachel Sargeant - The Good Teacher - A gripping thriller from the Kindle top ten bestselling author of ‘The Perfect Neighbours’

“Let’s have the DNA as soon as you’ve got it,” DS Matthews says. “The chances are they’ve both got previous.”

Steve nods, closes the file on the desk, and slides it to one side. He pulls another manila folder towards him. “Moving on to the murder scene at Martle Top. The boys are taking the car apart as we speak. Lots of prints everywhere, especially on the steering wheel, which match the prints on the handcuffs. So probably the husband’s.” He flips the new file open. “Also a few of the wife’s prints, as you’d expect in the family car. But there’s at least one other set. The boys are looking for DNA.”

“What about this?” DS Matthews points at the bag containing a large knife, the blade partially obscured by dried crusts of blood.

“No prints on the handle. That would be too easy. We’ve taken a blood sample to match to the victim. A foregone conclusion, I’d say.” He lifts a bag containing a large pair of black and white trainers. “We also found these shoes in the footwell of the driver’s seat. We think they belonged to the victim. I’ll confirm this as soon as I can.”

“Brock was barefoot when we found him,” Matthews says. “If they’re his, he was probably wearing them on the way to Martle Top and took them off before he got out of the car or was dragged out. But why would two brutal killers get into his house, pull him out of bed and then let him stop to collect his trainers?” He rubs his chin and pauses. “Or did he always keep them in the car?”

“You tell me, Mike. You’re the detective. But if they wanted him to drive the car, they might have let him put something on his feet.”

Despite the run-in with Hendersen, I have a residue of confidence left over from the interview with DI Bagley. I interrupt. “Was anything else found in the ditch near the body?”

“Yes, Agatha .” Steve points to three bulging plastic sacks at the back of the desk. “All the usual crap you find in an English country hedgerow these days. It’s all bagged and labelled. I’ve got to go through it, but I doubt that any of the fag ends, condoms and cola cans will lead to a major breakthrough.”

Squashed down to foolish, I remain quiet for the rest of the meeting.

“You can go home now, Agatha. Catch up on your bedtime reading,” Matthews says as we make our way downstairs.

“I don’t mind staying on.”

“You go home and psyche yourself up for what you’ve got to do tomorrow.”

I dread he’ll mention the post-mortem, but he has another task in store.

“First thing you’re taking the grieving widow to identify her husband and then bringing her back here to view some mugshots. The inspector thinks it requires the softly, softly approach of a woman constable. Best not stay up all night with Hercule Poirot. We want you looking fresher than the corpse.”

Zelda’s eye goes straight to the towering figure exercising at the barre . Her heart skips. The prodigal has returned – for the second time. She takes in the shiny blonde hair scooped into a ponytail and the baggy blue T-shirt that matches the friendly eyes. And the woollen legwarmers, of course – so old-fashioned and yet so becoming on Pippa Adams.

“Just join the end of the line, Pippa. We’re starting with ‘Happy Feet’,” she says, offhand, doing her utmost to her hide her delight at seeing Pippa back in class. She hasn’t been in a lesson for over three months – ever since Zelda mentioned doing a veterans’ number at the summer show. She’d misread the look of horror on Pippa’s face, putting her reluctance down to false modesty. “You’ve still got it, you know. Three years pounding the beat hasn’t made you completely flat-footed.”

“I’ve retired from performing,” Pippa had replied, and now Zelda hates herself for frightening her away. She had thought that time had put a safe distance between Pippa and her unknown demon. But how wrong she’d been. Pippa stopped attending the class after Zelda mentioned the summer show. She still comes to the studio sometimes but after-hours and she dances alone. Zelda has never talked about the show again or Pippa’s absence from class, too nervous of opening the old wound. But tonight, for whatever reason, she’s back in a dance class.

Zelda sets the iPhone in the speaker and looks along the line of dancers, all poised with their backs to her. Her gaze lingers on Pippa. She knows her statuesque presence will dominate this line-up as it has every other one for almost twenty years. Tears prick her eyes as her thoughts turn for the thousandth time to what might have been. What should have been. Until three years ago.

Zelda has been Pippa’s dance teacher since she was five. She seemed an unlikely ballet dancer at first – big for her age even then, thighs chubby in white nylon tights, her round face as pink as her ill-fitting leotard. But Zelda spotted the child’s innate sense of rhythm and ability to interpret the music. She looked beyond Pippa’s sturdy build and saw that special sparkle. She coached Pippa to the position of lead junior, tutored her in the holidays during her boarding school years, encouraged her dance degree and finally recommended her for her first professional role on a national tour with Marcos Productions.

Never before or since has she used a friendship to further a student’s career. But she went all out for Pippa, calling in a favour from her old flame, Barry Marcos. He wasn’t at all keen to see Pippa because of her height, but Zelda badgered him until he finally agreed to go through the motions of an audition. Zelda knew he still didn’t intend to take her on, so she set to work on Pippa. Her coaching, always thorough, became intensive. Hour upon hour of time steps, line after line of Suzy Qs, shuffle to shuffle of Buffalos, Zelda hammered out her demands like an overzealous drill sergeant. Pippa, the eager recruit, responded with pinpoint precision.

They both made sacrifices. She knew Pippa missed her brother’s fifth birthday party and incurred the not inconsiderable wrath of her young stepmother. For her part, Zelda cancelled two summer workshops to concentrate on Pippa. The loss of earnings and dent in her reputation seemed worth it. There was no doubt of their ultimate synergy: the expert coach teasing out the best performance and the talented pupil always willing to give it.

And Barry Marcos was so impressed that he not only accepted Pippa but also rearranged his chorus line to give her a solo spot. All of Zelda’s efforts seemed to have paid off until Pippa walked out on the opening night of her first professional show and rushed headlong into the police force. After all Zelda had done to get her the job, the betrayal ripped at her insides and she didn’t even know the reason. She still can’t believe it was down to acute stage fright, as Pippa’s mother suggested whenever the two met to mourn the loss of their golden girl.

“I’m so sorry I’ve let you down,” is all Pippa ever says if Zelda broaches the subject. Zelda has stopped asking. It’s like the most terrible bereavement. For Zelda, knowing that Pippa would never again perform on stage was like being left with only the photographs of a departed loved one. They drifted into a distant teacher/pupil relationship and things settled down until Zelda was stupid enough to mention the summer show. Now with her mouth firmly shut, she watches Pippa heel-toe smoothly over the dance floor, grateful for the third chance her reappearance offers.

I kick high. After the day I’ve had, staying in with a book, as Sergeant Sarcasm suggested, is the last thing I want. I needed to get out and do something I’m good at, but I didn’t want to practise alone tonight. I wanted to belong again, to be part of a dance troupe to get the companionship I used to love.